


Covet

by rispacooper



Category: The Count of Monte Cristo (movie)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fernand shouldn't want him, but he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covet

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the 2002 film, not the book.
> 
> God this fic is so old. If the fandom weren't so small, I wouldn't even be posting it.

“Aren’t you coming, Fernand?”

The question came through the trees, beginning in a hearty, pleasant tone and then slowing with worry. No doubt Edmond worried for losing sight of him. Fernand almost scoffed at the idea, but bit back his mocking words and waited a moment instead, not wanting to anger his friend.

There were times when it pleased him to anger Fernand, for it took such a great effort and so few rarely accomplished it. Even when defeated in their challenges, Edmond always accepted his losses with grace, flashing his white teeth in a smile that made Fernand’s heart pound with rage though he hid it. Always so noble, always so gentle, one would think that Edmond had been born the son of a count, and not himself. And yet, there beneath the surface was the same cruelty and hatred and lust lurking under the civilized facades of every man, and Fernand was the only one truly able to bring it out.

How he lived for that, prizing it more than any silly figure from a chess game. Those were the times when he was the master, more than just in name. That was when he owned Edmond Dantes and no one else could touch him.

“Of course not,” he drawled in response at last, and looked down towards the water. “Do you think I would bathe in the creek like some sort of peasant?” he asked smoothly, lolling his head back against the tree behind him, though Edmond would not be able to see the gesture. Though the small stream was not far away, low hanging branches and a few sparse flower bushes blocked most of the view from the stream.

From the latticework iron bench circling the tree trunk however, the creek was plain enough, and it was there that Fernand kept his eyes.

Edmond had been undoing the buttons of his coat with an eager haste to jump into the water but stopped at his words, glancing up toward him with a cautious air. He would stop what he was doing if Fernand continued with his disapproval, and for the barest moment Fernand considered it, ruining his friend’s enjoyment of the day simply to revel in his power to do so. It was worth savoring, but not as much as what was to come, so he sighed.

“Oh go on.” He waved one hand, knowing Edmond would see the broader motion. “I know you only come to visit me at home to play in the woods.” It was difficult not to be mocking then, and he feared Edmond noticed. He froze in place, with his coat still on and gaping open to reveal a plain shirt.

“I love your home, it’s true,” Edmond spoke with his usual calm certainty, and Fernand made a face to himself to hear it. “But I come to visit you, my friend.”

A moment passed, Fernand silently dissecting that comment until he was sure that Edmond had meant it, and it had not been some subtle manipulation. But then how could it be, with Edmond the honest? Edmond the pure? Edmond the noble? He would never lie, nor register that Fernand wanted anything other than to be his friend. His lips curved into a sneer just thinking of it, and he longed for a drink. But he did not have one, and drinking so early in the day was sure to earn him a disapproving look from Edmond.

“Enjoy the water while you still can,” Fernand granted permission when the silence had gone on too long, and Edmond laughed, a sound of relief.

“Will we miss our afternoons when we are at sea?” he wondered as he discarded his coat and then bent to yank off his boots. They were scuffed boots, where Fernand’s were shining and polished, but when they were tossed into mud that hardly mattered.

“I shall,” Fernand answered, too lowly for Edmond to hear. It meant little, for Edmond was too absorbed in thoughts of a swim to listen for a response. Years in the water ahead of them and his friend celebrated it by bathing. But a ship full of unwashed sailors was almost enough to make him want to bathe as well.

Fernand forgot thoughts of their future at sea as Edmond slipped free of his trousers and tossed them on top of his coat, apparently wanting to at least keep those clean. Then he stumbled through the mud to the edge of the water, glancing back one last time invitingly.

“Are you sure you won’t join me for a swim?” he called out, laughing as the undoubtedly chilly water rushed past his toes. His hands holding onto the edge of his shirt, resting at his thighs.

“No.” Fernand’s answer was simple, the only word he was able to get out of his locked, suddenly dry throat. The woods held only a few singing birds, and if he wished it hard enough, there would be no one else in the world save the two of them. Bold Edmond seemed to have the same thought, jerking up his shirt and pulling himself free of it with another small chuckle at the autumn air that was cool even here in the south. It went on top of his trousers, though Fernand hardly noticed.

“Edmond…” It was a whisper, meant for his ears alone, and he drew it out to make it his. Then he simply watched, studying the play of muscles as his friend stretched out his arms and leapt from the ground into the stream. He had jumped into the water the same way in all the years they had known each other, as enthusiastic as a child even though they were no longer children, but men, old enough to seek their fortunes at sea.

Hard work had formed those muscles, hard work he had not had to do, though sometimes he had, working at Edmond’s side simply to show Edmond that he could. And Edmond had smiled and thanked him and then teased him for it as if was nothing for the son of a count to dirty his hands on such things. He never looked at meanings, Edmond, and it was no wonder that the king was in Fernand’s possession yet again.

He lowered a hand to his pocket even as the water from Edmond’s initial splash was still spilling over the bank. But his fingers did not stop for long at the oddly shaped lump in his coat pocket but moved on, down, lower, with practiced ease.

The styles now required close fitting breeches, tight to an almost ridiculous degree, and one glance away from Edmond would have enabled him to see clearly the growing length of his prick on his thigh. But he did not look away from Edmond, and the pants were not so tight that he could not free himself if he wished.

Edmond’s had been loose to have slipped free so easily, and briefly, against his will, Fernand’s eyes drifted closed to relive that moment. Strong, hairy thighs, lightly tanned from afternoons like this one, but too-long legs, still awkward with youth. Like the rest of his body, on the verge of its true potential.

Grace that escaped him during their little fencing lessons now would soon be his, and Fernand clenched his teeth tightly and opened his eyes, replacing that memory with the more exciting present.

His eyes darted about until Edmond sprang up from the surface of the water like some eager fish daring a hawk to pluck it from safety, then he sat up, abandoning his relaxed pose.

So free, he almost _was_ a fish, and Fernand curved the hand resting on the iron spirals of the bench into a talon. But fish were not beautiful, even if they were gullible.

Edmond looked to be standing now, the water rushing past him at waist level. So absorbed in the water was he that he could not even feel the way Fernand’s eyes claimed him, hotly observing even the smallest droplet of water as it streamed from his thick black hair to his muscled neck and smooth shoulders, and then down over his chest with its small patch of dark fur until it dropped down his rippling stomach back into the creek.

Thrust, parry, block, and thrust again; stepping in smoothly he had had Edmond at the end of his blade since the moment they had first met, _at the end of his blade_ , and yet he still did not have _him_. If he was not careful, the need to own would consume him, and yet was that not what his body wanted now, to be consumed?

Shameful, this need, and his face burned as his thumb stroked with deliberate softness over the throbbing ridge in his trousers. Boys of twelve had more control, and the thought increased his fury, lifting his chin so that none of the man exposed before him was lost to his sight.

He had burned even then, and a quiet moan tore through his lips at the remembered feel of Edmond at the same age, pinned underneath him after a fight, squirming and struggling for all he was worth though he had no hope of escape. It had happened first then, and it was Fernand’s turn to squirm to recall how he had reacted to his body’s new arousal, burying his face in Edmond’s shoulder.

The unexpected sweet scent of him had only made it worse, and he had grown so hard that Edmond had surely felt it, though he had not said anything. He had only gone still, the pulse at his neck like an insect’s wings in the breeze. And the skin over that pulse, under Fernand’s lips, had been dirty with work and sweat.

It would be that way again. Fernand shifted his thoughts from that humiliation at the age of twelve with a sharp surge of anger that brought his back from the bench as he thrust his hips forward involuntarily.

Grinding his hips into the heat between Edmond’s legs until he cried out, it was easy enough to conjure the image and his body responded, his hand splaying out over his still-hidden prick tauntingly. He pressed it down hard until the pressure was painful and then jerked up once more against his palm, wanting to look down into those brown eyes and see them splinter with both hate and lust for him.

How strong Edmond was, stronger than he would ever be, and yet his strong body would shake with the force of his rage at being taken like that, and with his inability to contain his own desires, until Fernand would have to sit on his hands and bite down into his dirty skin to make him stay.

His tongue stroked over his lips in eagerness and he tossed his head to the side, though never letting his eyes stray from the wet figure of Edmond, splashing around innocently in his water.

No not innocent, never innocent. Edmond had to know what he did, had always known. Whispering childish words into his ear as hands patted over his back, holding him there on top of him until he had nearly died of a boy’s longings.

There would be no whisperings now.

“Fernand?” Edmond had remembered him at last. “Are you sure you won’t join me?” He called it out pleadingly and Fernand slid his free hand up at last to pop free one button of his trousers, then two more.

Pleading, that was what he wanted. Begging, screaming like some street whore, as Fernand took what everyone knew was his. Just like that Edmond would call for him and then he would moan with need at the push of Fernand’s cock on his lips.

“No,” Fernand gasped roughly as cool air hit his fevered flesh. Edmond blinked and then frowned as if confused, leaving Fernand to writhe silently under his heavy gaze. Then he was smiling again and shrugging before dipping back under the water, and Fernand was free to touch himself.

His palm was moist when it touched his prick and he sucked in a breath at the tingling rush of pleasure. One stroke and he was shuddering, his mind spinning weakly from Edmond’s mouth to his body, to the chest that had almost been his, and the rest of him.

Did Edmond please his lovely Mercedes as he pleased him in these fantasies? Burying his head between Fernand’s legs and sucking so fiercely that there was no mistaking who he wanted, who he belonged to?

“You are mine, Edmond,” Fernand bit out harshly, circling his dripping prick with his fingers and then sliding them over the wrinkled ring of skin to the base of his shaft, trying to imagine being so far inside of Edmond that he could go no further. How Edmond the pure would shake and shudder then, surrendering to him and drawing him down for more, crying as Fernand began to claim him.

His strokes grew harder and faster, his eyes dipping closed for a moment at last to imagine the feel of Edmond under him, soft, tight body wrapped closely around his cock as he moved. Each thrust would bring him closer, and Edmond would clench his legs around him, trapping him until there was nothing but his heat and his eyes, and Fernand would watch them melt into nothing but desire for their fucking to continue.

His hips left the bench again, arching into the firm body that wanted him. Edmond’s hold was tight, inescapable, and Fernand barely held back his own cry at the pleasure of having those muscled thighs pinning him down.

“Edmond.” It was quick and needy this time, rough when it should have been smooth, inaudible over the sound of the water. His own voice groaning and grasping for control when Edmond placed a gentle touch to his back. He gasped as if the touch were as forceful as a series of scratches and fought the urge to moan when it became just that, marking him and holding him firmly captive. “Please, Edmond,” he begged for his release with dry lips and jerked when it came, thrashing his head back into the tree and slamming down onto the iron.

His seed shot into his palm, hot and sticky, but he barely noticed, his eyes filled with the naked figure only yards away.

 _Mine_ he thought dizzily, then flushed with angry shame at the lie as his mind cleared of his foolishness. Edmond did not even see him now, drained and heaving from his dreams of him, and for a moment Fernand wished that he never had to look upon Edmond again, and see his ignorance.

Swearing, Fernand sat up and used the fine Venetian lace of his handkerchief to clean his hand. He tossed the scrap of expensive fabric behind a bush once he was done and then raised his chin.

“Do you mean to play around like a fool all day?” he remarked, his voice still husky from his suppressed moans. Edmond went still halfway in and halfway out of the water, the trail of wet, dark hair leading between his legs just visible. The small, pleased smile on his face slipped, briefly changing to an angry frown. Fernand’s lips twisted into a pleased smile of his own to see it.

The End


End file.
